IV

Up in the "conference room", the men gathered about Gordon at the

controls. He checked the autopilot and sat drumming his fingers on

the desk. Finally he looked squarely at the language expert. "Mr.

Stuart ... it seems fairly obvious now that the outcome of this entire

expedition depends almost solely on you. You're the one who knows how

to convey ideas, probably as well as any human being alive, according

to the information we got before we asked you to join us. All the rest

of us can do is run this ship and make like space-fighters."

He raised a hand at Stuart's beginning protest, and went on. "Let me

finish my little speech. You're trained for this sort of thing, even if

you do lack non-Terrestrial experience. You figured out the elements of

the Alpha Centauri II and IV languages from nothing but sound movies, a

few years back. Now, what I'm getting at is this: you tell us what has

to be done, and we'll try to figure out a way to do it. We're starting

from scratch, of course; that meteor, by a million-to-one chance,

ruined all our previous plans."

Stuart pulled at his ear a moment. "Well, all those plans were designed

to give me at least the minimum amount of observation I'd need to

prepare a friendly message. Now, while my stock of Azuran symbols is

still zero, we've gained some information. It's too bad we lost the

horses and bloodhounds, for the combination can't be beaten when it's a

matter of finding someone in hiding. However, we do know where at least

three natives are. And personally, I don't regret it a bit that I'll

not make use of those hasty riding lessons."

He paused, and White spoke up. "Even if we do know where some of them

are, I don't see how we can use Plan One. How can we set up hidden

microphones and telicons, when the ruddy natives live in a cave?"

Brettner, looking disgusted, added, "Even when we catch one of the

critters by dumb luck, he won't talk. Trained not to. And that tears up

the second plan."

The captain nodded. "And our third scheme ... to watch and wait, using

long-range equipment, and play for the breaks. That sure seemed like a

flexible plan. But of course it was blown all over the Milky Way along

with our food. Anyway, the news from Patrol makes speed essential."

There was glum silence for a while. Then Rogers offered, "There must be

some way we can use our knowledge of where at least three of them are

hiding--even if the place is defended with a natural barricade and a

souped-up pack howitzer."

After a thoughtful moment, the little language expert cleared his

throat hesitantly. "Er--I should like to suggest something...." They

all looked at him, making him feel rather self-conscious, but he went

on. "You said something about an old-fashioned billboard, Gordon, that

got me thinking. I have a good many pictures of the expedition and our

activities--" he reddened, remembering the frequent ribbings about his

photographic activity "--and I can make a few sketches for the rest

of it. You see, I was thinking we could sneak down there at night and

leave a series of pictures where the natives would find them in the

morning."

He was talking rapidly now, full of steam, pacing back and forth.

"The pictures would show that we are _not_ the Invaders, that we are

friendly--I took pictures of Rogers helping the monkey-rats, for

instance--and then we could have a couple of pictures of Terrestrials

and Azurans exchanging gifts." He stopped, embarrassed, wondering

whether his scheme sounded naive to these practical men. "It--it's been

tried before with considerable success ... in some cases."

Gordon thought it over a while, rubbing the stubble on his

cheeks. "Might work," he mused aloud. "What about setting up an

automatic-sequence gimmick of some kind, controlled from here while we

watch their reaction with a telescope? We could turn the pages,

see? ... or should we just tack up a string of pictures along the

path?"

Rogers sat forward. "Machine might be better, if we can rig it up soon

enough. Separate pictures might get blown away or something, for all we

know, or some kind of critter might destroy 'em."

* * * * *

Stuart stopped pacing and squinted at the ceiling. "Yes, I like the

machine. We could include a little pickup unit so I could record

and analyze their comments, knowing just what they were looking at.

That would really help a lot." He snapped his fingers, struck with

inspiration. "What about ending the little show with a real surprise? A

gift that would really demonstrate our good intentions?"

What did he consider a suitable gift?

"A blast-rifle!" he answered boldly.

"What the devil!" exclaimed Gordon. The others indicated various

degrees of consternation. They stared at Stuart as if he had suggested

turning pirate. But he showed a firmness that was new to them--and to

himself.

"Nothing else will do the trick as simply and surely," he insisted.

"In the first place, their most desperate need, as they see it right

now, is probably an efficient but simple weapon of some sort, capable

of being enlarged into a heavy defensive piece of great range. I

understand our blast-rifle is such a weapon. I believe they live in

absolute terror of another attack, and they apparently have little or

no technology left with which to prepare for such an attack. Hence

their going underground."

He paused to let the point sink in. "And in the second place, it seems

reasonable to believe they would understand our good intentions from

such a gift. Surely they will see that no one planning an aggressive

move is going to arm his intended victims first! Their behavior

certainly indicates that they are accustomed to direct action, rather

than to Machiavellian subtleties of plot and counter-plot."

Nestor stuck out a skeptical lower lip. "How will they know we're

making a gesture that means anything? I mean, they still might figure

the gun is just a little toy in our league, and that we're not running

any risk at all by giving it to them."

Stuart hesitated before replying. He nodded in appreciation of

intelligent analysis. "That's a difficult point which will have to be

worked out later ... possibly on the spot. First of all, we shall have

to establish contact. It will also be necessary to show them we have

a defensive screen, too--which they would doubtless be overjoyed to

have--and that we are willing to turn it off and trust them. It will be

a delicate and intriguing problem in psycho-logic."

Rogers shook his head and laughed a little. "It sounds as cockeyed as

'Uncle Willie' Ulo's stories about Sinus V. But, so help me, I believe

it'd work!" All at once his expression changed, and he looked hard at

the expert. "One thing, though, mister. I know I wouldn't care for the

job! Who's going to be the guinea-pig and go down for the first little

chat with them?"

Stuart smiled thinly. "Who will bell the cat, eh? Another fair

question. Well, I shall set up the apparatus, and of course I intend to

try out its effect, too. I shall confront the natives myself after they

have received our picture message and the gun."

The others protested, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw. "After

all," he explained later to Gordon, "while you fellows have been

acquiring glamor, so to speak, I've been leading a rather dull life. I

intend to have at least one little fling at dangerous living. Besides,

I'm the only really expendable man in the crew ... the rest of you are

necessary to the operation of the _Special Agent_. And anyway, I'm only

here because I know something about communicating ideas. This is part

of my job, if anything is."

The rest of the day and a major part of the night, except for brief

catnaps, were spent in fabricating the device which Gordon designed

to Stuart's specifications. Even White's work on the mosaic alarm

was suspended. The linguist planned, sketched, and worked with his

photographs for ten hours before allowing himself to rest. He had done

all he could with his part of the project, and decided to lend a hand

in the shop ... but first he would massage the leg which had been so

painfully gouged when the meteor struck. He sat down to ease the ache,

and promptly fell asleep.

* * * * *

When they woke him three hours later, his machine was ready. In his

meticulous way, he had made careful notes of the picture sequence, and

other five members of Contact, Incorporated had arranged everything as

indicated. He examined the device sleepily, rubbing the back of his

neck and yawning. "Looks okay," he grunted. "Controls tested? Good.

Nice job, very nice." Still blinking, he helped carry the makeshift

metal-and-plastic assembly into the scout ship in Number Three Lock.

Brettner climbed in and sat down next to him at the controls. "Sort

of a lucky thing for us this old planet has four moons," grinned the

scout. "All four were in the sky until a few minutes ago. Too much

light for us to pussyfoot around on the surface, so you and I had a

chance for a nap. Now there's only two ... just enough for us to work

by. We'll have to hustle though."

A few minutes later, under Brettner's skillful handling, the little

ship settled to a quick, silent landing about two kilometers from the

cave. The scout got out and began unloading the apparatus. Stuart, now

fully alert, held a low-voiced radio conversation with Gordon. "Still

no sign of any activity?"

The captain's voice was blurred with fatigue. "No, nothing, except some

infra-red indications of large animals to the south. We'll keep you

informed. For Pete's sake, be careful."

The linguist, nervous as he was, chuckled. "Good of you to remind us."

He put on his bone-conduction earpiece, throat-mike, and all the other

gear designed for planets with breathable atmospheres. Clambering out

of the little vessel, he joined Brettner. The two men helped each

other with the slings of their backpacks, locked up the ship, and

started off.

Stuart had to run occasionally to keep up with the other's easy,

practised stride. The extra rifle and his half of the apparatus jounced

and dug into his back. Occasionally he heard Brettner whisper into

his mike, asking for directions. The compass was useless near the

iron-bearing coral rocks.

Like the scout, Stuart had studied the route in advance, but traversing

it in the dark was a grimly different matter. The double shadows of the

two moons were confusing and made him stumble. Once a sensitive bush of

some kind shuddered and drew back with a moan when he grasped it for

support. He shuddered and brushed sweat off his face and sleeve. What

did anyone know, after all, about the number of dangerous organisms

this planet harbored? Carnivorous plants, for instance, or even

animals, might not have sense enough to avoid iron complexes such as

human blood....

Something soft beneath his foot shrieked horribly in the night and slid

away. He went down on one knee, but waved when Brettner turned as if to

help him up. "I'm letting this get me," he thought angrily. He got up

and jogged along again, trying to imitate the scout's powerful stride.

Abruptly they came upon the trail. They had just started along it when

a warning came from the _Special Agent_. "One of those animals on the

prairie must have picked up your scent. Probably a hell-cat sloping off

toward the trail now. Ye gods! ... he must be doing sixty kilometers!

Now he's slowing ... you should see him about a hundred meters ahead in

a few seconds. He's sneaking onto the trail."

The linguist's heart thudded as he crouched in shadow with the scout.

"What do we do, Brettner?" he whispered.

"Have to use this," the other replied, hauling out a wide-barrelled,

clumsy looking Texas Slugger. "Picked up this sweetheart on Callisto,

but I only got three shells." He aimed down the path through an offset

sight. "Don't get behind this, laddie."

* * * * *

In the moonlight farther up the trail, a sinuous beast like a huge

armor-plated cat glided out from the brush. It opened jaws a meter

wide, showing double rows of dull green phosphorescent teeth, and began

to lope toward the men. The scout fired when it was less than sixty

meters away, and a rocket-propelled projectile hissed out toward it.

A few meters out, the 2000-G drive of the projectile cut in, and the

missile crashed into the hell-cat with terrible impact.

The creature was a hollow mass of pulp almost instantaneously. The

only sounds had been the brief hiss of the rocket, the even shorter

crackling of the accelerated drive, and an earth-shuddering crunch when

the device had struck a wall of rock beyond the beast. Apparently these

had not alarmed the other nocturnal creatures about, for the various

animal cries went on as before.

"Come on," said the scout, resuming the trail. "We got to hurry."

Stuart followed, wrinkling his nose at the horrible stench of the dead

animal. Nearby, a brightly glowing hole in the rock showed where the

missile had buried itself and disintegrated.

By the time the men reached their objective, a little trailside

clearing just out of sight from the cave, the language expert was

thoroughly winded. It was some satisfaction to him to note that the

scout was sweating heavily too. Brettner unshouldered his equipment,

took a sip of water from his canteen, and moved up the path a few

meters to keep watch on the cave. The opening glowed less brightly than

the luminescent rock around it.

Stuart worked as rapidly as he could in the moonlight and ghostly shine

of the hill. His footing was uncertain on the irregular coral. Twice

he stopped and crouched, rifle ready, as his sensitive ears detected

a change in the pattern of night sounds. A wild assortment of odors

drifted with the faint breeze; once a friendly little creature smelling

like fragrant Scotch offered him a pebble and giggled. In his anxious

haste, the linguist dropped two bolts into the twisted crevices of the

rock, and he began to feel he was having a nightmare.

When the assembly was nearly completed, Nestor warned over the radio,

"Better step on it, guys. We can see daylight coming from up here.

You have about half an hour to get away." By the time the device was

operating satisfactorily, there was enough light to see clearly. The

two men on the ground picked up the tools and canteens hastily and

hurried back along the trail.

They had gone about halfway when a stone the size of a baseball landed

with a vicious clank on the scout's headgear. He swore softly and

sagged against a bush, fighting dizzily to stay on his feet. Stuart

snatched up a smaller rock and hurled it at the attacking stone-hawk,

which was banking into another dive in the dim morning light. The

stone smashed one wing. The creature spun and flopped through the air,

screaming and gobbling, until it crashed into a tree and fell dead.

Brettner shook his head and grinned ruefully. "Good thing I got a

wooden head.... Yeah, I'm okay." He examined the dent in his helmet,

and spit contemptuously at the dead hawk. "That's some arm you've got,

mister," he added respectfully.

Stuart examined his arm, pleased. "Used to pitch on the varsity," he

explained. "Did you hear the mouthings of that vicious bird? He was

swearing at us, I'm sure!" He resumed the march, wondering absently

whether all these Azuran creatures spoke basically the same language.

From what little he had been able to observe, it seemed likely.

* * * * *

It was almost full daylight when they reached their scout ship. "Come

on up," Nestor told them. "No sign of activity around the cave yet, but

you better keep between it and the sun just in case somebody peeks."

Brettner took off immediately.

Ten minutes later Stuart was seated at his apparatus, stuffing

breakfast food into his mouth and feeling very tired. "Been making this

stuff for a hundred and fifty years," he grumbled to himself, chewing

doggedly, "and it's still lousy." Suddenly he dropped his spoon and

adjusted the view screen controls. Gordon walked in, buttoning up his

dungarees and yawning. "Brother," said the chief, "when we get back

we're going to sleep for two weeks!" He looked at the busy linguist and

was immediately wide awake. "What's up?"

Stuart pointed to the screen. "Native just peeked out." He reached over

toward one of the cephaloids, mindless brains with tremendous memory

and associative power, and began flipping switches. Activating solution

flowed through the micro-cellular colloid; little lights on a panel

winked on as the surface potentials reached operating level.

The linguist glanced briefly at the screen. "I guess there's time to

show you one of its little tricks, just to warm it up," he said. He

sang, in Universal Speech, a couple of ribald verses of "The Venus of

Venus," then touched a switch. Immediately the song came back at him

through a little speaker, but in English--and with the unmistakable

drawl of Rogers. "I conditioned it a few minutes ago with his

voice," explained Stuart. He was delighted with Gordon's reaction of

incredulous astonishment. "It's really a wonderful mechanism, Gordon.

It--oops! There's a native!"

He jabbed hastily at the "Primary Condition" stud, erasing the song

and the accent, and switched on the remote control for the picture

sequence. He handed Gordon a headset. "Will you monitor the pickup,

please? The rest of this stuff will keep me busy." He fell silent,

watching the screen.

Gordon reached over and switched on the movie camera set up beside him

to record the scene.

V

Three scarlet natives had come out of the cave. They stood in a patch

of brilliant sunlight, swinging their middle limbs about and playing

with a sassy little monkey-rat as men would with a fox terrier. At

length they picked up what seemed to be a crossbow and several spears,

slung bundles across their sloping shoulders, and started down the

trail. They walked slowly, spears at the ready, and were obviously

alert. Frequently they glanced up, or paused as if listening.

Rounding a turn, the lead native stopped abruptly, leaped back and

dropped flat. The other two dropped almost simultaneously. The leader

motioned cautiously for his companions to crawl forward; he pointed

with a tentacular upper limb toward the picture sequence machine

gleaming in the morning light. On it was showing a picture of a native,

enlarged from Stuart's picture of his temporary "prisoner".

The semanticist had evidently made a good guess in alien psychology,

for no hostile move was made toward the machine. The natives lay there

studying it, making occasional guarded gestures to each other. They

stiffened as the next picture flipped into view. It was a Terrestrial

family with two children. It was the picture Stuart kept beside his

bunk, and was the best thing he could think of to put across the

concept of a peaceful people.

Still no hostile move. No sounds, either, except the background

chirping and jabbering of other animals.

Anxiously, Stuart fussed with his controls. He flipped to the next

picture and a dozen after that without getting an audible response.

The natives were shown views of Terrestrial life, New York and the

space-port, the _Special Agent_, and two views of the receding Earth.

Then the linguist tried one of his sketches. It showed a globular

ship, such as the Invaders were believed to have used, attacking

the Terrestrial ship. In the following sketches, the Earth ship was

damaged, but managed to destroy the other.

One of the natives was evidently jolted into comment at this point.

"Aru!" came distinctly over the loudspeaker. Stuart immediately

murmured "Picture Fifteen" in Universal Speech into his microphone. He

beamed at Gordon, relaxed a little, and hit the sequence button again.

The next set of pictures showed the approach to Azura, the landing, and

Rogers' kindly treatment of the monkey-rats. Again a comment came from

the middle native, evidently younger and less well-trained. This time

he uttered several syllables, which the cephaloid duly absorbed. The

rear native thwacked him across the back angrily. Stuart bounced in his

seat with silent glee. He made microscopic adjustments to the analyzer

and continued the show.

Behind him, the door opened quietly. Rogers came in with some breakfast

for Gordon. The scout raised his eyebrows inquiringly; the chief winked

and nodded at the screen, holding up a hand in the "okay" gesture.

Stuart looked around at them, his finger hesitating over the sequence

button. He shut off his mike for a moment. "This is one of the parts

I'm dubious about. We swing into our sales talk here. Man sees native,

puts down gun, and approaches peacefully. Then they exchange gifts."

He pushed the stud thoughtfully. "If the response to this is favorable,

do you think we ought to go ahead with the rest?"